


a nothing king

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:25:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no one to blame but you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a nothing king

**Author's Note:**

> _[a nothing king](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wOUbN0-COE) they called a dreamer; this is my life and i call it a song_
> 
> slight warning for suicidal thoughts; spoilers up through meeting Asgore. a character study to the tune of the ageless king under the mountain.

It is such a beautiful day.

This close to the barrier, light from the surface filters in unhindered. You do not think the humans ever intended for you and yours to have this little fragment of their world, but you will take it, and you take a small delight in such a simple thing. Even filtered through the barrier, such as it is, the light is warm against your fur. 

A victory by inches.

You garden slowly, methodically. There is a sense of purpose in your movements, even as you turn dirt and press seeds into the ground in a new patch of earth; the dirt is cool and heavy between your hands, a grounding force. You are unbalanced, uneasy, unhappy, but in your garden you find a sense of peace, a turning of earth and time and seasons that you have loved for centuries past. Your garden does not hold your wrongs against you; if you fail it, somehow, life continues on. The flowers you grow will flourish and fill New Home with or without your aid.

It is something of a relief to know that at least one thing in the kingdom does not look to you as its savior.

You are the king. You have been for so long. Hundreds and hundreds of years, thousands of years, more years past than you care to count ever again, because somewhere in those millennia gone is the moment you stopped aging, and the moment your strength ceased to be enough, and the moment you stopped believing in your own promises to see everyone to the surface once more.

But you are the king, and your insecurities and doubts and fears are inconsequential when faced with the needs of the people. Your maturity must guide them; your strength must sustain them; your promise must carry them safely to an end.

So you promise them, and you carry them, and when the weight of it all bears you down until you cannot keep your head held high, you retreat to your garden and you lay down your burdens, even if only for a moment.

You do not deserve the peace you find. 

Not after everything you have done; not after the lives you have taken, the dreams you have stolen. You are the regent under the mountain, a king on an empty throne, and you remember every breath, every cry, every plea. You remember their faces, their hands, their eyes. The way they spoke, pleaded, wept; begged you for mercy; challenged you for your soul. They were only children.

They were only _children._

You pushed them to this. You sold their futures to buy your own. You shattered their resolve, and you tore their souls from their bodies, and you let your people think that each agonizing death was a victory, another step closer to freedom.

You did this.

You did this.

The cold weight of your sins is terrible and intense, but you are the king. This weight is yours alone to bear. Once it was hers, too, and she was your strength, your guiding light, your grounding presence; no longer, now. She is gone, and rightfully so. She knew what you had become, and loathed you for it. A sentiment you have shared for a long time.

How easy it would be to fall, you think. There are flowers here--tiny, inconsequential. Sweet and wet, heavy with the promise of an end that you deserve. You know their smell, their bitter taste masked in gooey sweetness; an accident, a childish mistake, made in love, baked with sincerity. You should have fallen then.

You could, now.

You collect buttercups in your hands, endlessly gold against your fur. How easy it would be. You could stop, here and now, and leave your burden to another. You have borne it alone for so long. You are the king, but another could take your place. Someone else could shoulder your tragedies, lead your people to the surface.

You could be free.

You could be _free._

But you are the king; your shoulders are broad and your back is strong. You were made to support your people, to carry their hopes and dreams. You are the regent under the mountain; your strength is for your people, your weakness is your own. How cruel it would be to ask anyone else to carry the weight you have suffered under, the burden of your own design, assembled of guilt and fear and cowardice.

The golden flowers in your palms are tempting, the promise of an end, but you set them aside. 

Your heart is already broken. You can suffer under the weight of your sins a little longer.


End file.
